


The End and The Beginning: Five First Times

by Lenore



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, First Time, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five vignettes. Five ways things begin and end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End and The Beginning: Five First Times

**Author's Note:**

> Big, huge thanks to my beta readers [](http://stone-princess.livejournal.com/profile)[**stone_princess**](http://stone-princess.livejournal.com/), [](http://pearl898.livejournal.com/profile)[**pearl898**](http://pearl898.livejournal.com/), and [](http://catmoran.livejournal.com/profile)[**catmoran**](http://catmoran.livejournal.com/). You guys are the best!

1.

The first time Dean saved a stranger's life he was fourteen years old. They'd tracked a demon with the nasty habit of turning people to ash all the way from Georgia to a little town in North Carolina, only to lose it in a cluster of feed supply buildings on the outskirts of it. Sam and their father had gone one way searching for it, Dean the other. When he heard a noise coming from inside one of the warehouses, he followed it, and there was the demon, with an elderly farmer backed into a corner.

Dean didn't think about it, just stepped between them, his rightful place, separating innocence from danger. He raised his blade and brought it down at a deadly angle, finding that vulnerable spot where demon neck met demon shoulder. In that moment, something electric shot up Dean's arm, buzzed all through him, something more intense than power, more important than triumph. The demon's head went bumping across the floor, its body crumpled. The farmer hightailed it to the door, not lingering even for a hasty thank you. Dean could smell the corn whiskey on him, and maybe the man simply preferred to believe he'd been hallucinating.

It didn't matter. That electric feeling stayed with Dean, warmed him, for a long time afterwards.

Today it's a Jersey devil, an abandoned fishery near Cape May, just him and Sam, but the instinctive choreography is the same. The devil lunges at Sam, and Dean throws himself between them like that's where he belongs. The devil's claws dig into his shoulder, ripping fabric, tearing flesh. Its red-black eyes look right through him, like he's already dead, and Dean has never felt more alive. Ice pick between those beady eyes is the surest way to kill it, and Dean drives the metal in hard, with all his strength. It's only then that he catches the sharp whiff of copper, but the smell of his own blood does nothing to dampen the moment. In fact, knowing it was spilled protecting Sam just makes it that much better.

Sam collects their weapons, turns sullenly toward the car. He always ends up pissed when Dean gets hurt, and he truly doesn't get this part of what they do, the rush of killing what's evil and saving what's good. It's the biggest difference between them.

They don't say a word all the way back to town. Sam stares out the passenger side window, and Dean ignores the fact that his brother is ignoring him. It's not until they're back in their room, the door safely closed behind them, that Sam finally explodes.

He grabs Dean by the neck of his T-shirt and slams him against the wall. "You fucker! What the fuck was that back there?"

"You mean the part where I saved your ass?"

Dean flashes his careless grin, apparently not the right move, because Sam throws him across the room, the bed luckily breaking his fall.

"What is your problem, Sammy?" he asks, starting to feel a little pissed himself.

" _My_ problem?" Sam spits out. "You're the one with the fucking death wish."

Dean wants to say, _No, you dickwad, it's a life wish._ But Sam really doesn't understand, and it's not something Dean can explain.

So he just brushes it off. "Don't go all drama queen on me. I'm still here, and you're still here. And that's the point, isn't it?"

"I can fucking take care of myself!" Sam shouts, his face bypassing red, going straight to dark purple, the tendon standing out on the side of his neck.

"Oh, yeah?" Dean says. "Well, you could have fooled me."

This, too, is something of a miscalculation.

Dean lands on his back with a thud, Sam heavy on top of him. "You bastard. You fucking bastard."

Sam pushes angrily at Dean's shoulders, and Dean being Dean has to push back. Soon they're rolling on the floor, struggling and flailing, hands grappling at each other. A nightstand pitches over, the lamp on it crashes to the ground. A chair falls on them. Sam's jaw is locked, his expression so furious it's like a mask, and Dean has no idea what he's trying to prove. But it's _Sam_ , annoying and indecipherable and still gloriously alive, and that buzz, that _thing_ from earlier in the day reignites, orders of magnitude more intense this time.

In the close room, the only sounds are the thumps of their bodies as they struggle, the determined rasp of their breath. Sam smells like sweat and dirt and wounded pride. Dean's shoulder feels sticky, the wound still oozing, the metal scent getting stronger, like some confirmation of what they are to each other. _Blood_. And it shouldn't make Dean hard. It really shouldn't. But every fierce lunge, every outraged twist of Sam's body sends sparks flying up Dean's spine, overloads his electrical system, and he knows there's only one way this is going to end if he doesn't put a stop to it.

"Get off me!" he yells at his brother.

Sam doesn't so much as pause, probably doesn't think Dean really means it. Fighting is how they work things out. Fighting says everything that's best not put into words: _I could really hate you sometimes_ and _You just scared the piss out of me_ and _You're the only thing I have, so don't you ever fucking get yourself killed_. Dean prefers non-verbal communication, and he has the scars to prove it. Sam knows this perfectly well.

Only now Dean's body is saying something neither of them is going to want to hear.

"I'm serious, Sam!" he shouts, in his most authoritative voice.

It's an instinct, giving orders, but he really should know better, because that just ratchets up Sam's need to be contrary, makes him thrash all the more vehemently.

Dean sucks in a breath, closes his eyes. "Come on, Sammy. Let me up. I need—I can't—" He makes his voice soft, almost pleading, and he starts to shake, can't hold on. "I'm going to—"

Hot and wet spreads between their bodies before he can finish, the scent of sex mingling with the lingering smell of blood.

Sam goes rigidly still. "You bastard."

His expression freezes over, his face all bleak angles, grimness darkening his eyes, but his body starts to move, the hard-wired rhythm, almost like he doesn't have any control over it.

"You bastard, you bastard," Sam keeps saying under his breath.

His erection is hot, urgent against Dean's thigh, like it's going to burn him right through the layers of their clothes. Like nothing can ever really separate them. Dean doesn't know what to do, where to look. So he doesn't do anything, keeps his hands on the floor, stares up at the ceiling, lets Sam take care of himself. It's hard to resist, though, when he can feel Sam's breath and sweat and the heat of Sam's face pressed against his neck.

When Sam comes, he's still calling Dean names, and that gives Dean an odd sense of comfort. It doesn't last long, as the feeling of damp jeans starts to register, the chill of afterwards setting in. Sam lifts his head, stares at Dean, a deep, searching look, confusion in his eyes, maybe a touch of fear, and something more shadowy, hard to pin down, something that might be the remnants of lust.

There's a flurry of elbows and knees as Sam scrambles up, his boots echoing dully on the carpet as he runs for the bathroom. Dean pushes himself into a sitting position, but doesn't get any further than that. His battered shoulder honest-to-God hurts now, and his clothes are a mess, sticking to him in at least three places. He has the unhappy feeling that the first words out of Sam's mouth when he's done in the bathroom are going to be, "We need to talk."

At least he turns out to be wrong about this. Sam reemerges without a word, heads straight for the dresser. There's a dark circle on the front of his jeans where he's tried to clean up, not all that successfully. He grabs a fresh pair of pants for himself, tosses a change of clothes at Dean.

"Leave the shirt off," he says in a clipped tone, not looking at Dean. "I need to clean that wound."

Dean nods distractedly, pulls himself up to his feet. He's tired down to his bones, and he thinks he hears his knees creaking as he drags himself off to the bathroom. He shouldn't feel like an old man before he's even thirty, but if he had a dime for everything that shouldn't be, he and Sam would be staying at the Ritz instead of a place that smells like generations of sweat and ancient mothballs.

He finishes in the bathroom a few minutes later, clean and dry and dreading what comes next, but Sam is all business, gauze in hand, a look on his face that says he's not in a talkative frame of mind. Dean settles on the edge of the bed, sucks the breath in through his teeth when Sam drenches the wound in alcohol. There's no flicker in Sam's expression at the sound. His hands move quickly, surely, a dose of holy water for good measure, then the bandage, some white tape. They've done this too many times before.

Sam doesn't talk while he works, his expression intently focused. It's only when he's done that he tells Dean how it is, "I know you have this thing about protecting people. Me in particular. Always have, since you carried me out of that damned fire. But I don't want you dying for me." He shakes his head for emphasis. "I really, really don't, Dean."

The quiet in the room is profound as Dean considers his answer.

"Okay."

Which means he'll try, maybe, if Sam doesn't get himself into too much trouble. It's the best he has to offer, and they both know it.

"Do you—" Dean starts and then stops. It doesn't seem possible not to talk about the other thing, but then again, what is there to say? _Sorry I came on you_ doesn't quite seem to cut it.

"No," Sam says, as if Dean actually asked a question.

His eyes are doors slammed shut, and Dean just nods. Sam relaxes a little then, puts the first aid supplies away, braves a glance in Dean's direction. "You hungry?"

"I could eat."

Sam nods, and Dean pulls on his shirt, finds the keys where they fell to the floor. He can picture each next step like it's a movie he's seen before. Tonight they'll argue about where to get dinner, and in the morning Sam will complain Dean hogged all the hot water, and by lunch they'll be back to calling each other "dickwad." In the long hours in the car, they'll look straight on to the horizon, like where they're headed is all that matters, never once glancing in the rearview mirror at the road that's closed behind them.

* * *

2.

The dreams don't change all at once. Just bit by little bit, everything Sam left behind loses the force of gravity, and the only life that seems real is the one with Dean, on the road, out hunting things, like he never broke out of the old orbit at all. Jessica's face slowly starts to fade from his nightmares, and after a while even the flames don't have the same starring role anymore.

He isn't expecting his father to take Jess' place keeping him awake at night, but when it happens, he's not exactly surprised about it, either. Touchstones of conscience, both of them, and Sam does have more than one reason to feel guilty.

Another long day spent in the car, on their way to investigate a haunted textile factory in Arkansas, and when they finally stop, Sam has the feeble hope that maybe he'll be so tired he won't dream at all. When his head hits the pillow, though, it starts, the way it always does, with a ringing cell phone. He answers, and then that familiar voice is right _there_ , in his ear, inside his head. No matter how many times he dreams it, hearing his father say his name jolts him hard.

"I need you to meet me," his dad tells him. "Right now."

"Sure. I'll get Dean, and we'll—"

"No. Just you. I need to talk to you alone."

"But why—"

"Take a right outside the motel. There's a turnoff just down the road. It's not far. You can walk it. Come by yourself, Sam, and hurry."

His father hangs up, and Sam hesitates, thinks about getting his brother anyway. But his father sounded so adamant, and Dean is always big on doing what their dad says down to the last detail. Sam goes alone.

He has no trouble finding the turnoff, and standing right there, waiting for him is his father. Sam throws his arms around him. "God, it's good to see you. We've been looking and looking. Where have you been?"

"I just had to figure something out before I could see you again."

Sam pulls away, looks at his father. He has a strange expression, one Sam has never seen before. "Figure what out? And why wouldn't you let me bring Dean? He'll want to see you. Let's go back to the motel and we can—"

His father grabs hold of his arm. "No, Sam. We need to do this without your brother. That thing I had to figure out? It's you."

Sam stares at him. "What?"

"I always wondered how a son of mine could be so perverse he'd want to sleep with his own brother." He gives Sam a pained, pondering look. "I tried to tell myself it was my fault, the way I raised you, not enough structure—"

"No!" Sam shakes his head. "I'm not—I don't want—"

But the words feel like mud in his mouth.

"And there were other signs, too. The way evil things always seemed to gravitate to you. I wanted to believe it was because you had some special gift, and they wanted to destroy you for it. But in my heart, I knew the truth. That they _recognized_ you. One of their own."

"What are you talking about, dad?" Sam's voice rises desperately. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

His father shakes his head sadly. "It's what's wrong with you, Sammy. I can't pretend I don't understand it anymore. I can't let you ruin Dean."

"No, dad, no."

Sam is out of breath like he's been punched in the stomach, and even though there's a distant part of him that knows this is just a dream, that doesn't soften the hurt any.

"If that were true," Sam tries to argue, "Dean would know—he'd—"

"Dean doesn't _want_ to know, but you and me, Sammy, we can't avoid the truth any longer." His father's expression takes on a stern sort of sympathy. "You're made wrong, always have been. You feel it. I know you do. It's why your mother died. And Jessica. And now you're this close to doing the same thing to Dean."

"No, please," he begs, wiping his face with his sleeve.

"Yes, Sam. And now you have to be brave. You have to save Dean. Save your brother. I know you don't want to hurt him." He pulls a revolver from his waistband, holds it out. "You know what you have to do."

The gun feels heavy, serious in Sam's hand. He slowly brings the barrel up to his head, the cold press of it against his skin. His father gives him an encouraging nod, and he closes his eyes, takes a breath. The last thing he ever remembers is pulling his finger back. In that moment where the loud crack should be, his eyes fly open, and he bolts upright, looks around wildly, confused for a second, not sure where he is or why he isn't dead.

Dean sleeps on, undisturbed. Sam gets up from bed, his legs shaking a little. The dream always stirs up things he tries hard not to think about, doubts and twilight fears and...other stuff.

He notices it then, the revolver sitting on the table by the window where Dean left it after cleaning it. Maybe it's the dream bleeding over into life, or the way the strip of moonlight coming in through the gap between the curtains seems to fasten on the metal. Just suddenly Sam feels sure there's some inevitable choice to be made here, between his brother lying there so peacefully and his brother's gun glinting at him with suggestive intent, the only two possibilities.

The gun would be easier in many ways, Sam knows, maybe even a relief. Just pick it up and do it. Dean wouldn't wake up in time to stop him, and it would all be over at last. But Dean...if Sam starts _that_ , there won't be any such thing as the end.

He only needs a moment to decide, to take those few steps. He sits down on the edge of the bed and watches his brother. The moonlight falls over Dean in a stripe, and Sam lays his hand in the pool of it, palm flat against Dean's chest.

Dean's eyes snap open, instantly alert, the hunter's instinct in him. His gaze locks onto Sam. Sam doesn't move his hand, and Dean doesn't turn away. Even in the dim light, Sam can see the "yes" in him. He idly wonders if two wrongs can ever make a right, or if it's just way too late to care.

 _You know what you have to do,_ his father's voice echoes in his head. He moves his hand in slow circles over Dean's warm skin, bends down to him. He's never been the obedient son, and he's not going to start now.

* * *

3.

Sam doesn't know why it comes as such a surprise to open the door and find Dean standing there. It's not the first time he's shown up out of the blue since Sam left for Stanford, just the first time he's done it since Sam moved in with Jess.

"You gonna ask me in, bro? Or leave me out here for the neighbors to admire?" Dean says it like he's starting something, but then he can't hold back and cracks a grin.

Sam shakes his head. "Get in here, you jackass."

They say their I-missed-you's the way brothers do, with bear hugs and thundering claps on the back, quickly devolving into an amateur wrestling match.

"Jerk," Sam says when he finally lets Dean go.

Dean flashes his cocky grin. "You only say that 'cause I can kick your ass."

Sam is poised to take Dean down when a soft voice calls his name, makes him whirl around.

Jess hovers in the doorway from the kitchen, looking uncertain.

"Hey, Jess. Say hello to Dean."

"Nice to meet you," Dean says in his Sunday school voice, taking a step forward to shake hands.

Jess smiles at Sam. "So this is your big brother." She flashes Dean a conspiratorial look. "He talks about you all the time."

"Oh, yeah?" Dean meets Sam's eye. "Well, I've heard a lot about you, too."

Not the truth, and for once Sam is grateful that Dean tells such effortless lies.

"I hope you can stay the weekend," Jess tells Dean. "I'd love to hear all the embarrassing stories from Sam's childhood."

Dean and Sam exchange a careful glance.

"I wish I could," Dean says, "But I actually came to see if Sam could give me a hand with something. See, our dad went on a hunting trip, and he hasn't checked in for a couple of days."

Jess looks alarmed. "I hope nothing's wrong."

"It's probably not," Dean tells her.

Sam quickly adds, "Sometimes Dad just loses track of time."

"But we should still check it out," Dean says.

"Of course, of course." Jess reaches for Sam's hand. "I hope your dad's okay, baby."

She helps him pack, and ten minutes later he and Dean are in the car. Sam doesn't start in with the questions right away. Change of world, and he takes some time to make the transition. _Like coming home_ , he idly thinks, although he'd never admit as much to Dean.

They're already on the highway heading south when Sam finally asks, "So when was the last time you heard from dad? Where was he? What was he after?" If it's something like a siren or a pagan god, they could be in for some trouble.

"Wednesday. Outside of Omaha. He was looking for deer, but he probably wouldn't say no to a wild turkey if he came across it. He and Uncle Jim said to tell you hello, by the way."

It takes a second for that to make sense, to realize that his father is actually _hunting_.

"You bastard!" Sam hisses through his teeth, although if he's honest with himself he halfway saw it coming.

Dean just smiles, keeps driving. Sam doesn't ask where they're going, isn't surprised when Dean pulls into a motel the next town over. He stays in the car while Dean goes into the office. A few minutes pass, and Dean comes back with a key, pulls the car down to the end of the building, parks in front of room number 16.

It's not until they step inside that words threaten. _I've never cheated on Jess._ Sam doesn't say actually it, though, because it's not going to change anything and the hesitation would only sound feeble between them.

Dean is on him the second the door clicks closed, fingers sinking into his hair, mouth hot, demanding. It's so easy to fall back in, like water closing over Sam's head, nothing but the two of them, the best kind of drowning. Sam fists his hand in Dean's T-shirt, kisses back until he can taste copper, his blood or Dean's. It's pretty much the same thing.

They go a little wild, clothes flying off, kissing, pushing and pulling at each other. It's all kind of a blur until Sam is on the bed, on his hands and knees, Dean's cock hot against his skin, leaving a slick trail along the curve of his ass. Then every detail, every movement, the sound of his own heart pounding registers with such force he can barely breathe. He feels the dribble of slick stuff in his cleft, warm from being in Dean's pants pocket. His brother is nothing if not prepared.

No prelude, just a fierce thrust, and Dean is inside him, fucking him. The first time is always hard and fast. Sam grapples at the bedspread with one hand, trying to hold on, jerks himself off with the other, like it's the last orgasm he's ever going to get.

"God, Sammy."

Dean's still saying that when he comes.

It's a few hours later before they wear each other out and finally take a break. Sam half sprawls on top of Dean, one leg draped across him.

"You really are a bastard," he says conversationally.

Dean's mouth quirks up at the corner. "Yeah? You know that tends to be a genetic condition?"

Sam elbows him in the side.

"Ow!" Dean says, not convincingly.

Sam props himself up on one arm to kiss him. "You're probably right."

Dean curves his fingers into the hair at Sam's neck, tracing the shape of the curls. There's something like an apology in his eyes, but he doesn't say anything. Neither of them can ever really be sorry for this, and they're not going to talk about Jessica while they're in bed together.

Sam kisses him again and then moves lower, runs his lips in a line down Dean's neck, rubs his beard-rough cheek over Dean's chest. His fingers go on an expedition, seeking out what wasn't there before.

"This?" he asks about a nick just below Dean's collarbone.

"Poltergeist down in Tupelo. Damned thing threw a waffle iron at me. Didn't duck fast enough."

He traces a raised scar on Dean's belly. "And this?"

"Wendigo in the Upper Peninsula. Incinerated the fucker a second later."

Sam slides down the bed. Dean's erection bumps against his chin. He blows on it, short, warm puffs of breath.

"This?" he asks softly.

"You do that to me, Sammy." Dean's mouth pulls tight at the corners. "And I expect you to take care of it."

Sometimes Sam actually enjoys living up to his brother's expectations.

By late Sunday, the room smells like them, like sweat and sex, and they've wound down to sated kissing, the occasional idle caress. Sam hasn't had his clothes on since Friday. Whenever they needed food or coffee, Dean was the one to pull on his jeans.

"Just stay like that," he'd say, if Sam offered to go.

Sam stretches lazily, runs a hand over Dean, his fingers trailing along his skin, connecting bruises and red places where his lips, his teeth have been. Sam takes special pleasure in this, overwriting himself on the marks evil things have left on his brother. Sam's own skin is free of incriminating evidence, nothing awkward to explain later on. Considerate of Dean, or maybe he just doesn't need to leave marks to prove that Sam belongs to him.

The room grows steadily darker, and they don't bother to turn on a light. Neither of them says when it's time to go. They just get up, start matter-of-factly cleaning up, pulling on clothes. The drive back seems paradoxically too long and very short, and it passes quietly. Anything important has already been said, without words.

Dean pulls up in front of the house, and they just sit there, the car idling, for who knows how long. Sam casts a glance over at the building at last, and there's Jessica's face, pale, framed in their window. Sam curls his fingers into the seat. He feels bad that he's left her waiting so long, and he wishes she weren't watching. He really wants to kiss Dean goodbye.

Dean smiles, his eyes warm with the knowledge of it. "I'll see you soon, Sammy."

He doesn't remind Sam that the only reason they have to say goodbye at all is because Sam wanted this shot at normal. He never says it. Never has to.

Sam grabs his bag out the back seat, nods to Dean as he gets out, waves from the curb as his brother drives off. He turns, walks slowly to the house. He took a careful shower back at the motel, and he can't smell Dean anymore. But he can still feel him. He always does.

He hasn't rehearsed a story, but then again, there's no need. Maybe it really is genetic, because the lies will come tumbling out of him, not just now, but every time in the future. Colorful tales of the Winchester men and their rugged hunting, fishing, canoeing, hiking, whatever trips, just enough of a grain of truth in these excuses that Jessica will listen with an indulgent smile, never once suspecting.

Sam's feet fall heavily on the stairs, and as he stands there on the porch, the closed door feels suddenly prophetic. It doesn't matter what he does. He'll never be normal. Dean will always come for him, and he'll always go, and even if he could, he's pretty sure he wouldn't change that.

His brother and him. That's all the eternity he can imagine, and everybody needs some kind of forever to believe in.

* * *

4.

The first time Jessica called him "Sammy" he flinched. He thought about saying he was sorry, or maybe trying to explain, but he was half afraid that would only bring up more questions, things he couldn't answer, didn't want to think about. So he said nothing, and she was careful not to call him that again. Sam thinks she must understand a little at least, because she never asks what happened to his brother, why he came that one time to see them and never again, why the only Winchester at their wedding was Sam.

The kitchen in their new house is like something out of a television show, one of those decorating programs Jessica pretends she doesn't watch, all streamlined metal and warm-colored tile and wood that's been rubbed and scarred to make it seem like there's a history to it. Jessica moves from sink to refrigerator to stove making dinner, as efficient as the space itself. Sam sits at the center island and watches as she fills a pot with water for pasta, chops herbs. He answers her questions about his day the way he always does, "fine, just fine, I think we're really starting to get a handle on this case."

They eat dinner, and Sam cleans up.

"Hey, you cooked," he says when Jessica offers to do it for him.

Afterwards, when there's nothing left to scrub, the restlessness starts to set in, almost three weeks since he last got this itchy, hellish urge, and he hoped to God it would be longer before it came back again.

"I've got to head over to the office for a while," he tells Jess, his voice so casual it gives him away.

She does her best to keep the disappointment out of her expression. "You shouldn't push yourself so hard."

Sam knows what she really means. _You can't keep pushing me away like this._

He gives her a weary smile and a kiss. "I won't be late. I promise."

In the car, he manages to relax a little, enveloped in the deep leather seat, music pounding out of the CD player, the comforting purr of the Porsche's 3.2 liter engine. He imagines, as he often does, showing off this car to Dean, tries to picture the glint of envy in his brother's eye. Of course, he knows Dean's tastes run more to classics, something rescued from the junkyard, lovingly restored, not simply driven off the showroom floor. Still, it makes Sam happy to think his brother might covet the Porsche at least a little bit.

 _I should have gone with him, helped him look for dad._ Most of the time Sam's able to keep this thought shoved safely to the back of his mind, but these restless moods leave him vulnerable to what-ifs. _I shouldn't have said no, should have realized what it meant._

Then again, how was he supposed to know it would mean everything? Fail that test, never get another chance. Dean never used to be that way.

For days, weeks after Dean stormed out with a "fine, I'll do it myself" and a hard, disappointed look in his eyes, Sam had called and called his cell phone. It always went straight to voicemail, and Dean never bothered calling back. Then one day Sam got a different recording, an automated voice, "I'm sorry that number is no longer in service."

"Fuck you too," he'd said out loud, and figured Dean would be in touch when he finally got over being pissy.

But he never did.

Sam spent years putting ads in newspapers, on the offhand chance Dean or his dad might see it, even hired private investigators. Never did any good, no trace of his family anywhere. Even now, with law school and his first mortgage and making partner all firmly in the rearview mirror, he hasn't honestly learned to let them go. In the back of his head there's still a tortured sense of maybe.

Sam turns down a long, winding street on the other side of town from his office, parks near the end of it. He gets out, walks slowly to the now familiar alley. Tunnel of Love, they call it—ironically, of course. Sam never even knew it existed until the court assigned him a pro bono case a number of years back, representing a kid who'd been picked up in the Tunnel for soliciting. Places like this aren't exactly on the map when you spend your evenings heading up the boards of charities and hosting parties for your firm's wealthy clients.

The kid had been nervous when Sam met with him. He was from some hick town in Oklahoma, never in trouble a day in his life before he hit the city. Sam reeled off his list of questions and tried not to stare. Those eyes, that mouth—another revelation. He'd honestly never believed anyone could remind him of Dean.

First time offender, and Sam managed to get him off with just a warning, bought him a ticket and put him on the next bus back home. About the same time, the last private investigator returned the balance of Sam's retainer. No new leads, he said bluntly, not much hope of getting one, either.

Sam has been paying regular visits to the Tunnel ever since.

He strolls slowly down the alley, taking his time. As he approaches, young men step away from the wall, into the light of the streetlamps so he can get a look at them. The one he wants is near the end, cheekbones like blades, a cocky certainty in the way he moves. Nowadays, Sam sees Dean everywhere.

He nods his head, and the man falls into step with him. There's a private place around the corner where they can conduct their business.

"It's fifty, baby," the man tells him when they get there, running a hand up Sam's chest, assuring him it'll be worth it.

Sam pulls out a wad of cash, a couple hundred at least.

The young man looks instantly more interested. "Anything you want, baby. Just name it."

Sam pays extra just to hear this. He grabs the man by the collar, brings his mouth down, not gently, and the man's lips open for him at once. Raw and messy, the way Sam wants it, and it doesn't take long before he's hard and shaking and ready for more.

"Fuck me," he says, rasping the words against the man's ear. "Do it rough."

The hustler breaks the clench, takes Sam at his word. He whirls him around by the arm, shoves him hard against the wall. His hands work nimbly at Sam's zipper, and Sam's pants are quickly down around his ankles. He hears the soft tear of foil, feels latex against his skin, and then he's being invaded, a white-hot burn of pleasure and pain that shoots all the way up his back.

He's not even sure why he needs this. It's not what he and Dean were to each other. Maybe it's just the closest he can get now, a pale imitation of being utterly consumed by someone.

He bites his lip to keep from asking for what he really wants. He fights this same battle every time, and loses it once again.

"Call me—"

"What, baby? What?" the man asks, pumping into him.

"Sammy," he says through clenched teeth. "Call me Sammy."

"Oh, yeah, yeah." The man tightens his hands on Sam's hips, leaving bruises. " _Sammy_." He thrusts harder. "They call you that when you were a kid?"

Sam ignores the question, his fingers curling into the loose mortar of the brick wall. There's trash and broken glass beneath his feet. He squeezes his eyes tightly closed, pretends he's somewhere else.

Hot breath rushes against the back of his neck as the hooker asks, "So who does that make me, baby? Your daddy?"

Sam flinches, tries to turn. The hustler forces him back against the wall, keeps fucking him. He laughs. "Okay. Not your daddy." He licks a stripe across Sam's shoulder. "Who else would call you that? Your brother maybe?"

"Fuck," Sam says in a shaky voice, pushes back hard onto the man's cock, not able to stop himself. "Dean."

He's never said his brother's name before when he's done this, and once he starts, he can't seem to stop.

The man laughs again. "Oh, yeah. Yeah. Let your brother Dean take care of you, Sammy. I know what you need. I always do."

Sam jerks his cock desperately, and it hurts, everything does. When the come spills over his hand, he knows what hitting bottom truly means.

The hustler finishes too and pulls out. Sam rights his clothes with trembling hands, eyes carefully averted. Even without looking, he knows the man is smiling.

"I guess they were wrong, huh?" the man says with undisguised amusement. "You can go home again."

Some last remnant of pride keeps Sam from actually running back to his car, but he does hurry. He opens the door, and then his stomach turns over, empties onto the street. _What the fuck am I doing?_ He's thought this before, but never has he had less of an answer.

His heart quiets a little once he's safely in the car and back on the road, but there's no forcing away the realization that's surfacing, that's been there for years if he had just acknowledged it. He's not going to find what he's lost in strangers, and Dean could very well be dead. Or possibly just trying to do something noble, letting Sam go, leaving him to his normal life.

It doesn't matter that Sam didn't understand what his decision meant until it was too late. He chose what he chose, and he knows in his heart that he's never going to see his brother again.

He takes a breath and holds it. Admitting that loss feels like a knife between the ribs. But as he exhales, there's a strange lightness where his grief has been, carried like a weight for so long. Jessica's face swims before him, that pinched look in her eyes when Sam ran out on her, tonight and all the other times before. He aches to hold her, kiss her. Wants to tell her, part of it at least, what won't hurt her. When he gets home, he'll try.

In the rearview mirror, the Tunnel of Love slips further and further away. _Never again,_ Sam tells himself. For the first time, he actually believes it.

* * *

5.

Maybe Dean should have known all along that it would end the same way it began. Maybe he should have seen how every step was leading them bit by little bit back to the original conflagration. This is what he tells himself later on, after it's too late. Although, to be fair, he can also understand how he missed it. Nobody's story is ever so perfectly symmetrical, except maybe in made-for-TV movies or the tidy pages of a paperback novel. Real life is a messy bitch, at least what he's seen of it.

Another town, another haunted house, and Dean has to remind himself why he cares, "evil stuff is bad, got to get rid of the evil stuff." He's feeling kind of tired these days.

Mrs. Robson, the real estate lady who got their name from a friend of a friend of an acquaintance, looks at them over the tops of her glasses, seemingly unimpressed. "You've dealt with other situations like this?" she asks skeptically.

"Too many," Dean tells her with a tired sigh. "Care to fill us in on the details?"

She gives him a hard, appraising look, before finally opening the drawer of her desk and handing him a file. He flips through it, photographs and newspapers clippings, and Sam leans in to look.

"The old Berenger house, one of the show places in town until a few months ago when dishes started hurling themselves out of the kitchen cabinets and the toilets kept mysteriously backing up when there was no reason for it and a number of other very inconvenient disturbances." She levels a glance at them. "My clients want to unload it, and I want my commission. Whatever presence has come to squat there needs to be evicted. Can you do that?"

Sam nods. "Sounds like a poltergeist. We've had a lot of experience with those."

Mrs. Robson gives them directions and a key. They pull up in front of a large white house with columns and a wide inviting porch, Southern hospitality in architectural form. Dean grabs their pack out of the back seat, well stocked with salt and herbs and anything else they might need.

"I'll take the upstairs," Sam offers.

Dean nods.

It seems like just another job until they step inside. From the look on Sam's face, he can sense the difference too. He pulls out the EMF meter, holds it up, and what they're looking for is up on the second floor.

Dean turns to Sam. "Hey, I can handle this. Why don't you go wait for me outside?"

Sam shoots him an irritated glance and heads for the stairs.

They go slowly down the hall, from room to room. About halfway along the corridor, the meter starts to go crazy.

"Hey, hold up—" Dean says just as Sam steps into the next room.

The door slams shut before he can move, closing Sam in, Dean out. He pounds on it frantically, calls out for his brother. When he sees dull orange glowing around the doorframe, he goes insane, slams himself bodily against it. "No! Fuck, no! Sam!"

He's not sure how many times he charges the door before it finally gives, opening as suddenly as it closed, sending him hurtling into the room. There's no sign of Sam until he thinks to look up, and then every atom in his body cries out, one overwhelming "no!" Sam stares down at him from where he's pinned to the ceiling, eyes wide, terrified, his body engulfed in flames, every nightmare that Dean has ever had come true. He can feel the heat from where he is, but by some miracle, Sam hasn't burned up yet.

"Sammy!" Dean tries to get closer, but an invisible force throws him back, won't let him approach.

The fire surrounds him now too, on all sides, cutting off escape, but like Sam, he doesn't burn. He's beginning to think that maybe there's something about the two of them. Maybe this thing doesn't have the power to destroy them.

It can fuck with their heads though, Dean soon realizes. The flames lick at the edges of his perception, like they're burning away the surface of everything, all the pretense and lies. Dean can't take his eyes off his brother now that he can really see him, things he's half suspected, everything he's never let himself imagine. From the way Sam is staring at him, his expression shocked and riveted, he can see straight to the core of Dean as well, to the same truth.

And it all makes sense at last.

There was a note scrawled in his father's book that he saw once. _Holy men can only be defeated by their own unholy desires._ When Dean inherited the book, he looked for it again, curious, but it wasn't there anymore. His father must have taken it with him. Dean wonders if his dad understood it for the prophecy it was, if he went off trying to solve it. Maybe he even figured it out, and that's why he never came back. Or maybe he simply became more collateral damage, like their mother and Jessica, another obstacle removed so Dean and Sam would wind up here, in this place, at this moment.

The voice comes to them then, fills the room, nothing and everything. _Your brother or this world. Choose._

Dean looks to Sam, and Sam shakes his head. "Dean, no! You're the only one who can stop it."

The voice thunders again, this time inside Dean. _Choose. You can't have both._

Dean would willingly sacrifice anything, everything else, just not this, not Sam. Evil knows how to choose its weapons, make weakness out of strength. He takes a step toward his brother, and as he does, the fire flows around him, freed, ruinous. He reaches out his hand, and then he and Sam are together in a way they never have been before, essential, eternal, a hell of bliss.

Dean's arms close around his brother, and Sam presses his face against his neck.

"I don't regret it," Dean whispers.

And he truly means it. From now on, the world is on its own.


End file.
